Paint on the Wall, Black in Our Minds
by ko-drabbles
Summary: Paint away the pain. He'll draw himself suffering so that he doesn't inflict it on himself in real life. He'll rip his guts out on the page so he won't really split himself open with the kitchen knife. That didn't really work out though... Did it? TW: Suicide attempt, self harm, depression, eating disorders. Tumblr Artist AU.
1. The Calm

**A/N: A really self-indulgent AU I decided to write and post after some recent events, both on this site and with my own mental health. Don't make the mistake that I write what I write to be "edgy", I have a lot of issues and it's easier to accept them after writing out my feelings, and I see a lot of myself in Kyoya. Also, the fact that I portray him as gay does not make me a fujoshi only interested in HOT YAOI. I'm queer. I'm gay. I see Kyoya as queer-coded, as does his English VA. Also, insulting a person's character after saying "with all due respect", is not respectful. If you don't like, don't read. Simple.**

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It was late. He could hear the crickets and cicada bugs chirping outside of his window, having called the Sakura tree right outside his window home for a good couple of months now. The sun had long since set, the moon high in the black, almost inky night sky, undisturbed by the light pollution; unlike the house they used to live in. The more rural area really was beautiful, his father citing that the fresh air – fresh start – would do him good.

He wasn't quite sure about that, but it was definitely pleasant. The garden, the stars, the balcony outside of his bedroom - even if the doors were locked by his father before the man went to bed, for peace of mind. It was just so peaceful. He could breathe, and that was certainly an improvement. He could sit back, clear his head, and focus on getting his education back on track.

Honestly, he shouldn't be up this late, but he got distracted by his sketchbook and what was supposed to be a doodle turned into a fully coloured, digital sketch. Dark eyes stared back at him from his computer screen, a slight smile quirking glossy, painted lips and glasses fogged with watercolour steam. It was actually something somewhat sweet, reflecting the atmosphere of that day.

The household had finally settled down from the stress of moving out to what was essentially the middle of nowhere, and so it was something close to normal. His father was in his study, focusing on the paperwork that had built up while he was looking after him, and Kyoya just... wandered. Trees, green leaves parting in the warm breeze and dappling the ground with golden light; it felt calming.

He stretched his arms above his head, shoulders and back cracking with that odd sense of satisfaction, stiff from hours hovering over the graphics tablet. He was feeling tired, but proud.

It had been a couple of years since Kyoya first started his little art blog, noir-nightmare, and it had grown rather popular over that time. His skill increased, as did his follower count, and he... slightly regretted that Edgy Fourteen-Year-Old™ branding. Still, he was kind of stuck with it - at least until he could actually come up with something better. He wasn't that great at coming up with URLs, apparently.

He wanted to post what he'd finished and go to bed, too tired to wait up for notifications and the surge of praise he'd latched on to in his darkest moments. His ego needed stroking every now and again, he sometimes needed positive reinforcement to just keep pushing on. It'd worked for a while, at least…

He sighed, picking at the bandages wrapped around his forearms with a frown. The wounds underneath were itchy, as skin tended to be as it healed, the stitches due to be removed in under a week. Fifteen stitches in the right, eighteen in the left. It was a wake-up call, in a way, different from the smaller, lighter scars that littered his arms and thighs. It wasn't to dull the pain, it was an end. A full stop. Nothing more, nothing less. Dulling the pain was one thing, but being so depressed that he actually attempted... That was much more serious in his eyes.

His father was horrified, of course. He didn't know about the isolation, the not eating, the cutting... They might have both cried, not that either of them would admit it out loud.

Still, as Kyoya went on his Tumblr to post the first piece he'd drawn since his attempt, he just went on his page to... stare at it a little. The post. After what was essentially a goodbye speech, his explanations and last words to his followers, his open suicide note to the blogosphere, was another text post. This was simple, three words that carried so much weight; **unfortunately, I survived**.

That really was what he felt at the time. He hated it, cooped up in that sterile room with the other children, not old enough to qualify for the adult's ward. He was subjected to the sound of wails and children's television that made him want to jump out of the window, but it set him on the right path. He was taking steps to fix his mental state. He had meds, and a therapist.

He was starting a new school, where no one would know him. A clean slate.

Honestly, that was the most stressful thing at the moment. He knew he could catch up with his peers, but it was pressure. Despite his insistence of the contrary, he didn't do well under pressure.

He was also on a meal plan. He had to drink disgusting, powdery milkshakes to make up some of his calories and protein. He had to get better, had to recover, with all of his coping mechanisms torn away because they happened to be " _unhealthy_ ". He didn't know how else to survive. He didn't do these things because he wanted to die; self-harm and suicide has two very separate intents. He wanted to _feel_ , to live… Just to keep going with a semi-colon rather than a full stop. Cutting himself was preferable to, say, jumping off the roof.

Still, he couldn't say that. He knew it wasn't right. Instead, he had to get healthy. Gain some more weight, take his pills, sleep enough… He had to heal.

He sighed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, finishing off his post with a small caption before unceremoniously flopping on his bed.

 _The little boy stared out of his window, gazing at the stars and thinking of how they'd burnt out long ago. He felt such a kinship with them. He toed the line between living and dead, appearing as if he were breathing to all those around him but knowing the truth. It made him feel warm, even as his tears fogged his glasses._

 _Sleep; enjoy your sickly sweet nightmares and melancholy dreams._


	2. Deep Breaths, You Aren't Five Again

The morning came with the sun pouring through the skylight and straight into Kyoya's eyes. Lovely. His circadian rhythms had settled into the routine of waking him up before noon, through ludicrously early bedtimes and a few rude awakenings from Akito - who might as well have just thrown him out of bed and onto the hardwood floors. It would have been more gentle than being shaken awake to the chime of "get up, you little shit" and the old classic "get your ass out of bed".

Of course, Yuuichi and his father had told him to be more gentle - kinder - but it was Akito. You can't undo about twenty years of personality faults with telling him to be nicer to his little brother, even after said little brother tried to launch himself off his mortal coil and into the if-not-great-then-better-than-fucking-this hereafter.

He turned onto his side, pulling the duvet up and over his head in an attempt to block it all out. The sun, the obnoxiously cheerful birdsong, all of it. He wasn't in the mood. It felt like mornings usually did; groggy, tired despite sleeping for so long, and knowing that he'd have to leave the comfort of his bed to go eat food he wasn't interested in. Not to mention the shitty milkshakes. If he wasn't going to eat, he had to drink three, and that was a punishment he wouldn't wish on even his old "friends".

Still, he didn't want breakfast either. He didn't understand why he couldn't just sleep through it. Or, more accurately, he knew why but just didn't like it. No matter what, everything he ate was just like cardboard in his mouth; bland, mushy, entirely too much effort to chew. Soup was left to go cold and, in the privacy of his own room, chugged down as if he was some sort of brain-dead college student acting on a dare. It was easier than just taking spoonful after spoonful, the bowl not seeming any emptier, all of it too much, too overwhelming.

Or, if he wasn't having a mental breakdown over soup, it was just too much effort to eat at all. He could just ask one of the staff members around the house to get something, of course, but that required getting out of bed, walking to the door and back, and then there was lifting each bite to his lips and chewing. It was just easier to not bother, and it wasn't like he was even hungry in the first place.

He sighed, pulling down the covers once more and reaching for his glasses. He had a list of objectives, and he had to choose three to complete today. That wasn't so much the therapist's idea as it was Yuuichi's, but still. He didn't want to disappoint him. He didn't want to disappoint anyone.

His back cracked when he sat up, everything too tense. His arms stretched above his head, trying to crack it once more, hoping his bones would feel less like they'd been run through with metal rods to keep him in place. He just wanted to check his Tumblr quickly and then he'd go down to the dining room to attempt to choke down his breakfast; after all, he hadn't really been on it since his attempt, and last he looked the inbox was almost bursting at the seams. While he had the motivation, he should probably answer them….

Leaning back onto the pillow he put between his back and the headboard, attempting to limit the number of bruises blossoming across his sharp shoulder blades, he grabbed his phone and opened the app. He preferred looking on his laptop, considering the app was eternally dysfunctional, but that was all the way across the room; whereas his phone was right next to him.

The sheer amount of worry that could be displayed in a message was actually rather astounding. Anon messages, ones from blogs he'd seen around – half remembered from reblog notifications and the occasional encouraging tag. Everyone was so… concerned; older messages begging him not to go through with his attempt, and newer ones asking if he was alright, that they were glad he survived.

He caught the small quirk of his lips attempting to blossom, the warmth that had been in the hollow of his chest freezing once more. It wasn't for attention. He didn't cut his arms to ribbons for _attention_. He wasn't that sick, that immorally manipulative. He wanted to die. Because, surely, if their worry made him feel good, then that was all too close to confirmation.

Still, one username jumped out of the sea of others, that icon and the expertly painted sheen of the knight's armour the user's trademark. He'd exchanged a few pleasantries with _fcirytcle-prince_ , but there had to be upwards of thirty asks from him alone. He surely didn't require such... relentless worry, did he? He was only a speck of dust in the grand scheme of things, after all; a blog that would've just faded from _his liege_ 's memory with time. Unremarkable. It wasn't even like they'd had a full conversation before, which he supposed was his own fault; he just had no energy for socialisation. Still, he was so anxious to stop him hurting himself, to keep him here, to see if he was alright.

He was never alright. Anyone who saw what he drew could tell you that; his little stand-in ripping his own guts out, flowers growing in his lungs and getting puked up with bile and blood. Pain, gore, angst. He inflicted it on the little boy with black hair, so he might avoid actually carrying out his violent thoughts on himself. Of course, the multitude of scars on his arms and legs attested to it not being a perfect system. As did his attempt.

He tried to put words together, tried constructing and deconstructing his sentences, attempting to answer... anything. Any message. But nothing came to him, nothing fit or seemed appropriate. His fatalist humour wouldn't go down well, not so close to the event, but sincerity was just too hard to force at this point. Everything he said on his blog - that wasn't a caption for his art - was far too sarcastic. Flippant comments about drinking bleach and jumping off the roof, the cornerstone of his generation's comedy, were met with replies of "big mood" and "same".

It felt like he wasn't alone, but the words became weightless. He might as well have said he was hungry and going to eat. That would be a first. He just didn't know what to do now that gravity once again pulled those words down like stone, onto his chest and crushing his ribs into shards that pierced his lungs.

He shook the muggy confusion and half-formed sentences from his mind, blowing a lock of hair out of his face. He just closed the app for now, saying to himself that he'd handle it later. It could be one of his objectives for the day, perhaps; even if the concept sounded childish. He could choose, he just needed to do something other than sleep. After all, he was starting school again in a few days, and he needed to make a good impression on his teachers and peers. It wasn't like before.

 _"I never liked you! I hate you!"_

 _"He's just… kinda weird. Do I have to be friends with him, daddy?"_

 _"But he can't even kick a ball!"_

 _"He's useless!"_

 _"He's a crybaby!"_

"Kyoya."

He blinked hard, chest heaving a little too quickly and feeling far too tight, turning to see Yuuichi leaning against the doorframe. Worry was painted across his features all too clearly, and Kyoya shrunk away from the gaze that had become so much like their father's; sharp, analytical, even when it wasn't meant to be. He was soft-faced and wide-eyed behind his glasses, and the mop of black that fell over his eyes in the stereotypical fashion for someone with his interests. Akito would call him an emo, to which he replied with something along the lines of "hell yeah, I am" with a raised middle finger. Their father just rolled his eyes, throwing out some half-hearted admonishment for his language, but not really doing anything more.

Yuuichi walked towards him, polished shoes making a stupidly loud click on the wood floorboards, the image something too close to the evil CEO or a Bond villain for someone with his eldest brother's temperament. The bed dipped more when he sat on the edge of the mattress that it did for Kyoya's meagre weight, and there was a hand on his head that was larger than his own. Everything seemed to be measured automatically; response, weight, height, his own emotions. It helped him push aside the panic in his head, having a consistent stream of data to switch his attention to; even if it was ultimately meaningless.

"Are you okay?" His brother asked, words wrapped in cotton wool and sugary sweet, running his fingers through his hair. Little circles, soothing motions reminiscent of being five and unable to breathe, his glass of milk and toast with jam shattered against the tile floor of the kitchen. His first panic attack. He couldn't remember what it was about anymore, but he remembered hands in his hair and deep breaths coaxing his own short, stuttered hyperventilation to slowly calm down.

He grew out of panic attacks – mostly, they sometimes come back when he's lying in bed, thinking about everything pressing down on him. That's when he finds he can't breathe again, and he sobs into his pillow, alone in the too-big room that seemed so… _isolated_. Like it was on a completely different plane of existence, some alternate dimension. It was unreal. _He_ was unreal. Unreachable and alone; whether it be in the room down the hall and to the left, or the first room on the right when you come up the stairs. No photos, not on the walls or the overflowing bookshelves, because every memory seems to be infected with some sort of bitter taste that washes over his tongue when he sees them.

Akito's right, he really is a fucking emo.

"Come on, you can do it Kyoya; in for five. You need to calm down," Yuuichi hummed. His voice was deep, low and calm, soothing over his frayed nerves. He tried to do what he was told, taking deep breaths that seemed to falter into breathlessness, Yuuichi trying to calm his frustration as it only made things worse, "Just try. Calm, deep breaths. You need to breathe."

"I… I'm fine," He gasped, not that it would fool anyone. He was never fine, a timebomb full of shitty mental health and unhealthy coping mechanisms. He was about as fine as when he tried slicing his arms open. Progress wasn't actually being made; let alone linier recovery. He could drag himself out of the pit, but he forever teetered on the edge.

"No, you're not," Yuuichi stated. It wasn't accusatory, merely a fact that finally came to light. He just tried to focus on breathing, eyes closing and ignoring his brother's words. Because they were right, too close to his nerves and bones, like a needle burying in his skin. He hated needles, "But you will be. Wounds heal, be they physical or psychological. The scars on your arms and legs'll heal much faster than your mind, but that's okay. One day at a time. You'll make it through all this in one piece."

He doubted that but, for now, he just leaned against his eldest brother, counting his breaths. It was better than counting footsteps, counting empty rooms, counting his ribs.

This was fine, unlike himself.


End file.
